


Entangled

by Melisandre_deWinter



Category: Rebecca - Daphne du Maurier
Genre: Anger, Canon Lesbian Relationship, Cunnilingus, Dom/sub, Dom/sub Undertones, Equestrian, F/F, Femme Fatale, Gothic, Hair Brushing, Hair Kink, Lesbian Character, Lesbian Sex, Light Dom/sub, Maids, Man-Hating Lesbians, Master/Servant, Misandry, No Lesbians Die, Object Penetration, POV First Person, POV Lesbian Character, Possessive Behavior, Possessive Sex, Pov Mrs Danvers, Power Bottom, Power Dynamics, Power Play, Protectiveness, Trichophilia, Whipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-26
Updated: 2020-09-26
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:49:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26668498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Melisandre_deWinter/pseuds/Melisandre_deWinter
Summary: "As a caretaker, tidiness should have been foremost on my mind. But as we lay in bed together I had no desire to clean the blood from her hands that covered the sheets, that covered my body. I could have died happy drowning in the blood she drew from my back when she raked her fingernails across it, whispering 'harder, harder…'"Rebecca and Danny's "hair-drill" over the years
Relationships: Mrs. Danvers (Rebecca)/Rebecca de Winter
Comments: 6
Kudos: 22





	Entangled

_“I used to brush her hair for her every evening. ‘Come on, Danny, hair-drill,’ she would say, and I’d stand behind her by the stool here, and brush away for twenty minutes at a time. She only wore it short the last few years, you know. It came down below her waist, when she was first married...”_

_“She despised all men. She was above all that.”—Rebecca, Daphne du Maurier_

She’d never stayed in London for this long before. I was long-accustomed to the ache in my stomach every time twilight fell without her return, but now that ache was consuming me, eating me from inside like a cancer. What could she possibly be doing in London this late? 

I distracted myself by arranging her brushes on the boudoir so that everything would be ready when she returned. Our routine had become so familiar after all these years. I’d hear her before I’d see her. “Come on, Danny, hair-drill!” she would demand as she stomped into the room. She’d doff her hat and shake out her almost hip-length black hair, tangled from sticking her head out the car window as it sped to Manderly. She would smirk at me as I approached her, placing my hand on her shoulder, guiding her to sit in front of the boudoir and taking her thick hair into my hands, so thick it required me using two brushes simultaneously to tame it, brushing it from the ends to the roots. I was always tender with her hair, no matter how tangled it was from her many adventures—horse riding, sailing, lovemaking...yes, she had many men, but they were only an amusement to her; seducing them was a game devoid of the lust she felt for women. During our nightly hair-drill we would laugh together as she recounted their many failings. We both despised all men, and I knew that no matter how many lovers she took, she would always return to me. We rocked back and forth with laughter together on her bed, her in my arms, as she’d describe their inability to please her, their sweaty palms slipping off her body when trying to hold her.

Mine never slipped when I held her.

Arranging her brushes made me reflect on our first time, on how we got here. Many said I had raised her, which was true to a point—it would be more accurate to say that we’d raised one another, helped each other grow into the women we were today. I was sixteen when we met, me a novice maid for a wealthy family, she the prized heiress. Although she was only a few years my junior, her family placed me as her caregiver, for everyone viewed me as an old maid even when I was still a girl. I had that spinster look, always have. When you loathe men as deeply as I do, it shows on your face. 

From the moment we met, I’d spotted that look on her face as well, although it didn’t age her prematurely as it had aged me. No one else noticed it on that angelic countenance, but like recognizes like. Others couldn’t spot in her what they never even considered looking for. Of course the little lady would be the wife to a great man one day. It was expected of her. But when I was taken to meet Rebecca in the stables, seeing the young girl dismount her horse, I knew she was no lady. Not in the proper sense. Not in the marrying sense. 

We were inseparable from the moment we first locked eyes in the stables. Just a girl of twelve, she knew what she was and she knew what I was. She was always so wise, so able to see into others’ souls, as I learned when she confided in me during each night’s hair-drill. But I remained her protector and confidante only, until that day when she was sixteen. 

I remember her at sixteen getting up on one of her father’s horses, a big brute of an animal that the groom said was too dangerous for her to ride. I can see her now, with her black hair flying out behind her, slashing at him, drawing blood, digging the spurs into his side, and when she got off his back he was trembling all over, full of froth and blood. “That will teach him, won’t it, Danny?” she said, and walked off without a care in the world. “Hair-drill, Danny!” she commanded. 

I followed her into her room, my heart pounding as I recollected how her hair had streamed behind her atop the horse, especially when she cracked the whip. My stomach fluttered as I entered the room, spotting her sitting at the boudoir in front of the mirror, her long fingernails caked with blood. “Might you want to clean yourself before preparing for supper?” I asked. She looked up at me looming over her, and her eyes twinkled. “I suppose,” she said slyly, and smirked as she unbuttoned her shirt, then loosened her riding breeches. 

She sat there completely naked. And before I could say anything, she raised her bloodstained hands to my neck and pressed my mouth towards hers.

As a caretaker, tidiness should have been foremost on my mind. But as we lay in bed together I had no desire to clean the blood from her hands that covered the sheets, that covered my body. I could have died happy drowning in the blood she drew from my back when she raked her fingernails across it, whispering “harder, harder…”

After all these years we were still a team, us against the world. Against all men. No matter which grubby man touched her hair, it would always be mine to possess. Suddenly, the sound of her stomping into the room interrupted my reverie into the past. “Danny, hair-drill!” I expected her to say, but she didn’t. I turned around to face her, looking lovely as ever. As much as I wanted to admonish her for staying away so long, she looked too beautiful for me to do so. “Hair drill?” I asked. She laughed, in that mocking way she usually reserved for pathetic Maxim, and stared me in the eyes as she took off her hat.

This time, she didn’t shake out her long hair. It was gone. Cut off. 

She spoke before I could. “Oh, but Rebecca!” she exclaimed, mimicking my customary stern tone. “How _could_ you!” She placed her hand on the boudoir and doubled over with laughter. The sound of it was cruel, mocking, the type with which she tormented her cuckolded husband. As she bent over, laughing, the bare nape of her neck and ends of her shorn hair grazing just below her ears taunted me.

“You should see the expression on your face, Danny!” she said as she stood up and walked towards me, looking me in the eye. “As if you had seen not just one ghost, but a menagerie of them!”

I had always loathed the craze for bobbed hair that started sweeping the world a few years prior, and cherished that Rebecca never fell prey to it. She did not follow fashions; she set them. She was above any trend. She was above any human. 

As I stayed silent, her green eyes bored into mine. “You must admit it looks chic, Danny,” she said, with a performative pout. 

And then I couldn’t stop myself.

“Chic?” I shouted, grabbing her by the arms and shaking her. “Oh, don't you start using that filthy little word, Chic! Whoever invented that ought to be spanked in public. Fucking chic! They should be hung, drawn, and quartered.”

Her eyes widened, in an expression I might mistake for fear if I didn’t know her her intimately enough to know she feared nothing. “Don’t take my choice personally, Danny,” she replied. “It’s nothing to do with anyone but myself.”

I let go of her arms and picked up one of her brushes. Our brushes, “It has everything to do with me. Every night since you were just a girl, we’ve always had hair-drill. The only time we have ever been truly alone together.” I turned my back to her. “You’ve been spending more and more time in London, away from me, and now…this. To take hair-drill away from me…” I could not let her see my eyes water. “I have a mind to quit your service, if you feel so strongly you don’t need me anymore.”

Her hands now grabbed my arms from behind and flipped me around so we faced one another. I shut my eyes to avoid the sight of her, shorn of those waves of hair tumbling down to the bottom of her back, over her bare chest. “Of course short hair is much easier for riding and sailing,” she said. I opened my tear-filled eyes. “You‘ve always managed to ride and sail gallantly enough,” I reminded her. Her gaze darkened.

“I have always done as I pleased. You’re not my mother, even if you look old enough…” her ensuing laughter was filled with malice as she taunted me. But instead of striking back, I needed to show her she was wrong. I was no old hag, I was as eager and willing as a young girl...and as helpless as one, in her presence. I yielded my hand as she took the brush from it. 

“And now we can use the brush for…” her eyes flashed with mischief “other pursuits.” She pushed me onto the bed, hard, and pressed her body down upon mine, kissing me. I tried to resist, I wanted to punish her for what she’d done...but I couldn’t. She unbuttoned my high-collared black dress, nibbling at the bare skin it exposed, her lips moving further and further down my body to my bellybutton, which she kissed before grabbing the roots of my hair with her strong hands, pulling until my braided bun fell down from the top of my head. A wicked smile on her face, she said “now it’s your turn for hair drill,” and flipped my naked body around. Softly, more softly than she ever did anything, she unbraided my long hair and loosened it onto my bare back, brushing it from the bottom to the top as I had to hers so many hundreds of times. As she brushed my hair with one hand, the other hand crept between my legs and up inside, tickling . Her long nails made it hurt, but I didn’t care. Being taken care of by Rebecca was so delightfully foreign that I could take any pain involved. Even the brush’s handle entering me was a joy, and my yelps let her know it. 

Suddenly, she flipped me around so I faced her from below and was forced to see the short black hair dangle over her eyes, like a slap in my face. “I almost forgot that you serve me,” she said, arching one eyebrow. Her thighs encircled my face and I pressed my tongue to her clit, circling in the ways that always made her come. When she arched her head back in ecstasy, heavy masses of hair no longer fell upon my stomach, so I grabbed the short hair by the roots, digging my fingernails into her scalp, and pulled hard, bending her head far back enough to almost snap off. She deserved to be hurt for her crime...

After she climaxed, her thighs slackened, and she moved each one on either side of my face, stroking my cheek. I reached up and grabbed the roots of her hair again. It was lank, matted with sweat. “Your hair will always be mine,” I told her. “You seem to forget that I am your master...” she replied, cocking her head to the left before ascending on my neck and biting it. With my high-collared dresses, no one would ever see the mark she’d left.

But I would always feel it. Always.


End file.
